by Lisa Lim
The last three courses are all desserts. And the first one up is White Chocolate Bread Pudding drizzled with Bourbon Caramel Sauce. It is to die for.
I breathe out a sated sigh. “Mika, you’re the best! I’ve never had food like this before. Thanks so much for bringing me here,” I say preemptively.
He beams at me. “You deserve it!”
“What did I do?” I fork a voluptuous portion of pudding.
“Well, you spent a lot of time tutoring me, and you helped me out with my papers.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “I hardly did anything. And if you thank me for tutoring you one more time, I’ll eat my own head. Actually, you have to eat a tenner.”
“Well you did,” he insists. “You have mad talent, Maddy. You could even earn some extra money on the side if you wrote for an essay mill.”
I stare agog at our next dessert placed in front of us.
Juan announces, “Triple Molten Chocolate Lava Cake served with a side of hand churned chocolate ice cream.”
It is literally a detonation of chocolate. And it is dynamite!
Mika smiles at me indulgently. “You can have some of mine.”
“Sure,” I say without hesitating, and he slides his oozing plate of chocolate my way. “You were saying?”
“Have you ever considered writing for an essay mill?”
I lick chocolate sauce off my bottom lip. “What’s that?”
“You don’t know?” he asks, mildly surprised and I shake my head. “It’s a ghostwriting service,” he explains. “College students pay big money to have these essay mills churn out their term papers.”
“How much do these papers go for?”
“Well a friend of mine paid fifty bucks per page, and his paper turned out to be well over a hundred pages long.”
“Whoa! That’s way more than what some New York Times bestsellers are paid per page. Now have you ever bought a paper from one of these essay mills?”
“No,” he says with conviction, and I believe him.
He continues, “I may struggle with writing but I enjoy doing the research. Anyway, that was a dumb idea. Don’t sell yourself short. You shouldn’t waste your talents writing for an essay mill.” After a pause he adds, “You shouldn’t waste it at that call center either.”
The last dessert is elegantly placed in front of me: Raspberry Champagne Sorbet topped with fresh mint.
Just perfect for cleansing my palette!
“Well?” he urges. “I know how much you hate working at that call center. Why don’t you explore your options elsewhere? Do something you love.”
“Well,” I hesitate, “I applied for a tech writing job with Ajon; they design software for medical devices.”
“Really, Maddy? That’s great! Have you heard back?”
I shake my head and pop a mint leaf in my mouth. “I only just applied a few days ago. Anyway, I’m not even sure if I’ll take the job if I get it.”
Mika reaches for his napkin and wipes his mouth with vigor.
I’m so glad he doesn’t dab. I find it so prissy when men do the demure dabbing thing.
After setting his napkin on the table, he startles me with his outburst. “Are you kidding me, Maddy? If you get an offer take it.”
“I’m still thinking about it,” I say, and promptly change the subject. “Shall we get going?”
He nods and whips out his Visa. Discreetly, our waiter Steve swoops in, slips the leather booklet in his hand and disappears around the corner.
“Thanks again for the awesome meal!”
“You’re very welcome,” he says graciously. “What’s next?”
“Well, it’s a good thing this place is downtown. I want you to feel the spirit of this city, so I say we take on Chicago by foot.”
He pokes his nonexistent belly and chuckles. “After all that eating, walking sounds good to me.”
Steve returns with the bill and Mika signs the receipt.
I sneak a peek and gasp, “Mika! That is too much. You can feed everyone in Botswana with that money. Let me at least pay for half.”
“No!” he protests.
“Yes!” I insist.
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“Okay,” I grudgingly give in.
After settling the bill, he asks, “Where’s Botswana?”
“In Africa.”
“So…” he regards me. “Is Botswana the poorest country in the world?”
“No, I think the poorest country is Zimbabwe; it has a ninety sextillion percent inflation.”
“Sextillion,” he echoes. “Is that like a billion trillion?”
I nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. “I think so. I know they had one of the largest bank notes in history—the one hundred trillion dollar bill!”
He laughs. “I’d like to buy some Zimbabwean eggs. Oh sure, that’ll just be one hundred billion dollars.”
I giggle. “They actually got rid of the Zimbabwean dollar last year. Their government got tired of printing new money.”
“Or,” he points out, “they could’ve just run out of paper.”
“True.” I smile.
He smiles back. “So if Zimbabwe is the poorest country in the world, then why’d you say I could feed the whole of Botswana?”
“I just like saying Botswana. Anyway, we should get going.”
Juan appears in a flash and pulls out my chair.
“Thanks, Juan,” I say gregariously. “Thanks, Steve.”
“Thanks for the excellent service,” Mika adds heartily.
Our tuxedoed waiters stand together with their perfect postures. With a cordial nod, they execute a final bow of impeccable grace.
What a performance!
Mika and I bundle up and roll out into the crisp, clear night.
“This area is also known as the Loop,” I say as we stroll down the strip.
Since Christmas is only a month away, Michigan Avenue has become a magnificent mile of lights. Christmas lights weave and entwine the trees and branches, illuminating blankets of white snow.
Macy’s and Marshall Field’s gargantuan window displays are dolled up with vibrant, colorful creations, unfolding the magic and splendor of the season.
We promenade side by side, absorbing everything: the throngs of people out shopping, a Salvation Army volunteer tinkling the donations bell, fantasy-like decorations that adorn every space, the jolly ol’ sounds of Christmas music emanating from the retail stores, the lights, the lights and the lights.
It feels like the most Christmas-y moment ever, bar none.
And it’s not even Christmas!
Mika says animatedly, “What a way to kick off the holidays.”
I laugh joyously, imbued with the holiday spirit. “I’m so glad you came.”
He links his arm through mine. “Phenomenal dinner, nice walk under the lights. We should do this more often.”
“I know...” I pat his arm affectionately, “we should.”
But inside, I doubt that we will.
Mika will soon return to The Land of Waffles, while I’ll still be stuck in The Valley of Potatoes. For now at least, I briefly close my eyes and remember this moment.
Twenty Five
The sweet, decadent aromas of Thanksgiving permeate the halls. The smell of an oven-roasted turkey dripping with gravy, fluffy mashed potatoes, freshly baked pumpkin pie, and my all-time favorite—sweet potatoes mushed up with a pound and a half of real butter, dusted with brown sugar, and sprinkled with pecans. It’s artery clogging, calorie packing and waist expanding, but it’s so worth it.
My mom doesn’t cook, but she has a tendency to go overboard with small dinner parties. Today, she’s hired two personal chefs along with an army of sous-chefs; and they’re busy chopping, peeling, dicing, cooking and prepping.
Catching a buzz from their hustle and bustle, I grab a box of matches and sidle out of the jam-packed kitchen. I may as well make myself useful elsewhere.
There are too many cooks in this kitchen and I don’t want to spoil the broth.
Twelve rustic candles make up the centerpiece of the oblong dining table. Striking a match, I light the candles one by one and instantly feel invigorated by the scents of autumn; the smell of an Indian Summer’s slow farewell.
Feeling someone’s eyes upon me, I look up and catch Mika watching me with interest. I return his gaze, staring at him with a sort of insolent appreciation.
Leaning heavily against the doorframe, he’s dressed casually yet impeccably in black slacks, black button-down shirt, black leather belt, and black leather shoes.
He’s bringing sexy back, and I’m loving his swagger.
“You look lovely, Maddy. Nice dress.”
“Thanks.”
My dress is boldly embellished with a huge rosette appliqué, and it could have gone one of two ways with this dress: incredibly kooky or incredibly chic. Methinks it errs on the latter, and I’m glad Mika seems to think so too.
Even my T-strap heels are decorated with rosettes, and spring bouquet studs adorn my ears.
I’m a walking arboretum.
“So, what time will your relatives be here?”
“Anytime now,” I hesitate. “Um, I have to warn you though, my Aunt Benedicta can be a bit snarky at times.”
In Latin, Benedictus means ‘blessed.’ And my aunt sure is blessed. Blessed with arrogance, egotism and conceit. Some may consider those traits a curse, but not my Aunt Benedicta. She considers it a blessing from above.
“And her husband Stuart is the perfect match for her. He’s super smarmy.” And together those two are a frightful combination. “You’ll see…” I crinkle my brows. “Even my cousin Constance is a constant pain in the rear.”
Ding! Dong!
“By the way,” I say hurriedly. “My Uncle Stuart has strabismus. Basically, he’s cross-eyed. So, if you’re not sure which eye to look at, just stare at his hairpiece, okay?”
“O-kay,” he says tentatively.
“C’mon, Mika.” I hook his arm. “Let’s go meet them.”
“Beatrice! So lovely to see you again,” Aunt Benedicta clips in her fake British-Madonna accent.
“And you as well,” tinkles my mom.
Then they swoop in and give each other the tepid two-cheek Euro air kiss. I swear sometimes, they address each other as if they were two strangers at a wedding.
Eyes sharp as needles, Aunt Benedicta spots me standing in the corner of the foyer. “Mah-dih-shon, dah-ling,” she trills in her over the top soap opera voice.
I reach in for a hug, but she immediately halts me, causing her Tiffany bracelets to jangle up and down her sinewy, veiny arms. Then she puts up her face for an air kiss and I freeze.
Does the right side come first, or the left? Does it matter?
Like air guitar, air kisses just aren’t the real deal, so I never bothered educating myself on the proper etiquette.
I wait for Aunt Benedicta to take the lead.
Grabbing my shoulders, she brushes her feathered lips on my right cheek, and then the left.
Then her critical eyes fall on Mika. She sizes him up and down with shrewd evaluation.
I make the introductions. “Aunty Benedicta, this is my friend Mika.”
“Meeeeeee-kah,” she enunciates, contorting her mouth in an unnatural and unattractive manner.
They go Muah, Muah in the air like a pair of seasoned Europeans.
At least Mika is the real McCoy; my Aunt Benedicta is just a wannabe. And I can tell she’s charmed. Over Mika’s shoulder, she shoots me a look of surprise. One that says, ‘How did mousy Maddy manage to snag this guy?’
But then again, it could just be my overactive imagination since she always looks surprised. Sadly, in her attempt to freeze the aging process with endless Botox treatments and frequent face lifts, Aunty Benedicta’s face looks frozen.
Not frozen in time, but in the moment.
It’s in a perpetual state of no-emotions and no-expressions.
Correction. There is one expression: perpetual surprise.
Meanwhile, the air kissing debacle is far from over as Uncle Stuart and Constance make their rounds. Finally, after all that pretentious nonsense is done with, we settle ourselves in the living room.
Constance emerges from her curtain of jet black hair, and her eyes narrow at me contemptuously. From the look on her face, I can tell she’s not a fan of my dress. She leans to her right and whispers something to her mom; then they look me up and down in a very impolite manner and exchange supercilious smirks.
Swallowing my annoyance, I force a smile, then I incline my head toward Mika and whisper, “I can’t stand my cousin and my aunt.”
Mika’s lips twist into a smile, but he adopts a neutral facade, remaining placid and polite.
I cast a disdainful eye Constance’s way. She’s dressed like a character straight out of a Tim Burton movie. Dark horn rimmed glasses adorn her shifty, rodent-like eyes, and she’s got so much eyeliner caked on that she looks like a panda bear. Her makeup is a stark contrast to her pale, corpse-like skin. Everything about her is severe.
As usual, Uncle Stuart dominates the conversation and I find myself staring amusedly at his Donald Trump comb-over piece. The strawberry highlights clash with his salmon pink sweater. I’m sorry, but a grown man should never ever wear pink. No sane mom would ever dress her baby boy in pink, or paint his nursery pink. And any grown man who chooses to dress in pink is just plain ridiculosity.
As distracting as his funny hair piece and girly attire may be, I try to tune myself in to the conversation that is swirling around me. When the economy was booming, Uncle Stuart loved to boast about all the riches he was raking in from the stock market.
He fancied himself a mover and shaker, and hobnobbed with all the Wall Street head honchos and hedge fund managers. He also heavily invested in Madoff’s ponzi scheme.
Now that the economy is tanking and Stuart has lost his high-flying job, all he ever does is whine about how much money he is losing, how his investments and 401K are dwindling to nothing.
We make all the appropriate sympathetic noises.
“Bernie Madoff has got blood on his hands,” he growls.
“Um, didn’t Steven Spielberg and Kevin Bacon invest with him too?” I ask casually. It was something I read in US Weekly.
Uncle Stuart shifts his anger to me. “Yes! But those are just stupid, gullible Hollywood celebs. Let me tell you, lots of smart people got duped. Smart people like me!”
“I didn’t say you weren’t smart,” I implore.
“You implied it,” he grumbles and sulks like a two year old.
I roll my eyes and Uncle Stuart throws me a murderous look.
A bubble of laughter escapes me.
Hah! It’s a good thing Uncle Stuart is cross-eyed. Although he’s glaring at me, it appears as if he’s glaring at Mika, who happens to be sitting next to me on the leather settee. Poor Mika has no idea why my Quasimodo Uncle is giving him the evil eye, and so he focuses his full attention on Stuart’s hairpiece.
I do the same. For obvious reasons, conversation is driven to an absolute halt.
After an awkward silence, my mom clears her throat. “Let’s adjourn to the dining area, shall we?”
“Let’s,” concurs Aunt Benedicta and struts to the dining room, flanked by her two toddlers.
A feast fit for a king is spread out before us.
My Quasimodo uncle pads heavily into the room and squashes his humongous rear into the seat next to Mika. Now if there is one thing Uncle Stuart loves, it is new company. To him, it is an opportunity to brag in their ears nonstop. And when he does not brag about himself, he brags about the next best thing—his evil daughter, aka the Devil’s spawn. Just barely a minute into our meal, the brag session begins.
“Constance has just landed herself a fantastic job,” he booms.
My ears instantly perk up.
Constance and I are only months apart in age, an
d ever since we were kids, Uncle Stuart has loved making comparisons between Constance and me. Of course, it was always in Constance’s favor. Constance was always the faster swimmer, she always got better grades, and she attended the better college.
When she got admitted to Yale, it was all we ever heard about at every single holiday gathering. To add insult to injury, Constance also majored in Journalism, and so the comparisons have never ceased.
Uncle Stuart strokes Constance’s hair like he’s petting a prized panda bear. “Constance here is a foreign correspondent for CNN. She’s following in the footsteps of Christiane Amanpour and Anderson Cooper.”
From across the dining table, Constance shoots me one of her I’m-better-than-you smirks, preening like she’s the gold medalist.
Keeping sangfroid, I treat her with taciturn indifference. On the surface, everything seems pleasant enough.
But I hate her.
And I wish she’d wipe that pompous smirk off her panda face.
Foreign correspondent, eh? Well I hope CNN deploys her to Afghanistan, or Syria, or Yemen.
“And what is it that you do Madison?” sneers Uncle Stuart.
I level my gaze with his. “I work at a call center.”
“What a shame,” clucks Aunty Benedicta, in a voice dripping with false empathy.
Uncle Stuart snarls in an accusatory tone, “Oh! So you’re one of those people, aren’t you?”
Slowly, I set my silverware down on the table. “And what do you mean by that?”
“You know, customer-no-service,” he says patronizingly. Then he emits his signature scratchy laugh, reminiscent of the noise a dog makes right before it pukes.
After collecting himself, he shoots me a smarmy smile and adds, “No offense kiddo.”
I know exactly what he’s trying to do. He’s been doing this to me my whole life—trying to make me feel inadequate.
Constance laughs a mirthless laugh and my mom’s eyebrows crease with concern when she catches the determined glint in my eye. Resentment and indignation boil inside me, and I have to consciously bite my tongue to repress the remarks I feel bubbling to the surface. But as tradition requires, a lady never speaks with her mouth full. And so, I patiently bide my time.
